


For Worse

by TenchiKai



Series: From Russia, With Love [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Original Character(s), Prequel, part of a series, please read part one first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10413843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenchiKai/pseuds/TenchiKai
Summary: (Part 2 of the From Russia, With Love series)It won’t be until some time later, with drunken brown eyes holding a flute of champagne and his name on those lips, that he’ll remember. What living is really like. What it was like to tell the truth to himself, to undo the chains he had tied around himself.For worse. Much, much worse.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (TenchiKai)
> 
> Hey guys! I've been writing one shots to pair with From Russia, With Love. Hope you enjoy!

**But you need to lower your standards  
** **'Cause it's never  
** **Getting any better than this  
** _Rat A Tat_ , Fall Out Boy  
 

Victor Nikiforov was twenty-two, and had never been in a public relationship. Christophe had been ass enough to _joke_ about it the last time they saw one another. How does the saying go, again? With friends like these, who needs…

The way he saw it, his time was running short, and he couldn’t avoid it anymore. People would start asking questions if he didn’t hurry up and find a … girlfriend. A wife. He was being questioned endlessly already about why he was so private with his “love life," fans were growing more restless. What’s worse, he was getting even more paranoid that he was going to be found out.

It was ironic how everyone just assumed he was some kind of playboy.

Paranoia was becoming part of his personality.

This internal anguish, this paranoia, is what led to the scissors being hastily taken to his hair. A late night trip to a hairdresser to correct. He had to be a … man now. He bit his tongue until it bleed as the hairdresser went to work. No one was ever, ever going to know. No. He was going to be the best actor. Surprise the audience until his bones and blood wouldn’t let him anymore.

What he saw in the mirror would always disgust him anyway.

That isn’t to say, the night he met her, he was thinking about that at all. Okay, that wasn’t _all_ he was thinking about.

It was at one of the silly events he was forced to appear at because of his Olympic win (another meaningless - but important for _Russia_ , he kept being reminded - gold medal), and she was there. Her green eyes did ignite him, her blond hair fell in the perfect way, and her red dress clung to her body in a way that _surprised_ him.

His breath hitched when he saw her up close for the first time. She was poise incarnate. Holding a glass of champagne in one hand, the other wrapped around some other man. Something about that screamed challenge to him, made him sure about what would come next.

He found out quickly that she was a model. The one trait everyone knew was that she loved animals.

Irena.

The selfishness clung to his skin like dirt. He was the wolf, she was a helpless sheep. She was it. She was the one. The one that would make him _normal_.

Later on that same night, he sat next to her at the bar. When their eyes met for the first time, her green eyes sparkled. He wanted his to sparkle in return. So badly. So badly they almost did.

He put on that facade he always wore, smiling at her and whispering words he was sure she’d want to hear. He meant them. Or did he? His feelings were so confused. The alcohol in his system was making him weaker (or stronger?) and the man she was with at the start of the night never returned.

Because who could compete with the most eligible bachelor in Russia?

No one, that’s who. He could have anyone he wanted.

… Make himself want anyone. _Right?_

She returned all his advances. She was all hands resting on his knee, compliments, and flushed cheeks. It was cute, he had to admit. Cute in the same way his fans were.

At the end of that night, she kissed him. Kissed him. And he felt … something. And the fact that he felt anything at all, pushed him to feel even more. It wasn’t electric, but maybe, it could be. Given enough time to nurture and grow.

For a single moment, he thought he wouldn’t have to fake it. For a second, he held her hands in his and could have sworn he was normal. That this, she, really could finally fix what was wrong with him. The puzzle pieces were finally fitting together.

He fooled himself so deeply, lied to himself so intimately, that he started to believe his own lies. He started to think about life moving forward. They started to date. He started calling her his girlfriend, and he believed it. On the inside, he believed it.

The media believed it, too.

They spent so much time together, started to get to know one another. They bonded over the issues fame had brought them. The stalkers, the followers, and the questions they kept getting asked over and over. They even started to cook for one another. Maybe, one day, they could laugh about the way he used to be. Thought he was.

A nervous laugh.

_Shit._

That electricity he thought would grow was fading instead of intensifying. It was dying quickly, and there was nothing he could do.

So he fought against it even harder, overcompensated. Screamed _no_ to the universe as loudly as he could. He bought a ring, one night shortly after he’d gotten another gold medal. That gold medal meant nothing to him, so maybe this gold would? Maybe he would feel again, if they were just _closer._

He should have known better. He should have figured himself out by now.

But he took to her favorite restaurant, got down on one knee, and watched her as tears flowed freely from her green eyes. She nearly _screamed_ her yes. Her make-up ran, and it made her look so unattractive.

Those are not the thoughts of someone who just asked the love of his life to marry him.

It became the exact opposite of he what he wanted, he felt nothing. Numb, from head to toe. The puzzle was supposed to be complete. She was loving, beautiful, and kind. Why why why couldn’t he just love her? Why was he so determined to force himself to try?

They got married the next summer. A wonderful, small wedding. It was all white roses and elegance. Poise, just like Irena herself. It was beautiful, and the way that her white silk dress fell on her almost made him forget. Almost. The love they made that night was almost genuine. The way she shook against him almost made him feel. Almost.

For better or worse.

And so, they lived. Together. For years. The acting became a way of life, rather than something he did for the public only.

It won’t be until some time later, with drunken brown eyes holding a flute of champagne and his name on those lips, that he’ll remember. What living is really like. What it was like to tell the truth to himself, to undo the chains he had tied around himself.

For worse. Much, much worse.

_Irena, I tried. I did._


End file.
